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Authors: David Morrell
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staring at him.
“Look, I’ll tell you what,” Parsons said. “You may have gathered from that message that I don’t just run this paper. I’m on the town council. If I wanted, I could make things tough for you, see that people didn’t talk to you, deny you access to the paper’s files, other things.”
It was the “other things” that Dunlap didn’t like the sound of.
“But I won’t. For one thing, that would show up in your story too. For another, you’d just work a little harder, and you’d get your story anyhow. All the same, if I wanted, I could make things tough. Now the point is, I don’t want you thinking I’m against you. The fact is that I’m not. In your place, I’d act the same as you. What I do want is a simple understanding. Anything you need is yours. Ask and I’ll arrange it. You go out and do your story. Then you come back to this office, and we talk. I want the chance to make this town look good to you. These people here are fine. I’m anxious that they don’t get hurt.”
Dunlap squinted.
“No, I’m not afraid of business being hurt,” Parsons said. “People out there don’t stop buying cattle just because a story makes a town look bad. What I said was true. I just don’t want these people hurt.”
Dunlap took a breath. “Fair enough.”
“What do you need?”
“Well, for starters, let me in your paper’s morgue. Then I’d like to see the records the police kept.”
“That’s no problem. What else?”
“Courthouse records. Trials and transcripts.”
“That’s no problem either.”
“Then I’d like to talk to people in the town. I’ll go out to the commune, too, of course.”
“Of course. I’ll see that someone goes out with you.”
Dunlap shrugged. “That’s all I can think of for now.”
“Well, you’d best get at it then. Just remember. Anything you need.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll get back to you.”
“I know you will.” And Parsons stared at him as Dunlap stood to leave. One thing now was certain, Dunlap thought. This was going to be a whole lot harder than he’d expected.
Chapter Twelve.
Ken Kesey was the cause of it. The Merry Pranksters and that bus. That was back in 1964. Kesey had already finished One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest and Sometimes a Great Notion. With his money, he had bought some land near Palo Alto, California, gathered freaks around him, and started on a trip. That was back when LSD was legal, and the trip of course was only in his mind. Then the trip was real. He had bought a bus, had sprayed it every color of the rainbow, and then dressing like a comic strip, he had shooed his freaks on board and started for New York. On the Road a decade later, Neal Cassidy as driver, that same Cassidy who’d been with Kerouac. They had ballyhooed across the country, music blaring out of speakers on the top, channeled in upon itself so that it echoed and then echoed yet again, police cars stopping them while Pranksters jumped down-Day-Glo-colored costumes, Captain Marvel, Mandrake the Magician-setting up their movie cameras. “Yes, sir! Yes, sir! What’s the trouble? Speak right toward this microphone.” Well, the policemen didn’t stay long, and the Pranksters got few traffic tickets, roaring on across the country, popping acid, blaring music, acting out the movie of their lives. They reached New York and headed back, and by now they were noticed, not just by the strangers they were passing but the press as well. There were numerous stories about their odyssey, acid rock and Day-Glo paint, so that when they got back to the commune, others of their kind were waiting for them, and the movie went on, only larger, more extreme. From the commune, they went to the cities, starting what they called their acid tests, light shows, flashing pictures, music coming from each corner of a hall they rented, speakers blaring, all matched with the flashing in their minds from all those Kool-Aid pitchers spiked with acid. Then Kesey was
“Look, I’ll tell you what,” Parsons said. “You may have gathered from that message that I don’t just run this paper. I’m on the town council. If I wanted, I could make things tough for you, see that people didn’t talk to you, deny you access to the paper’s files, other things.”
It was the “other things” that Dunlap didn’t like the sound of.
“But I won’t. For one thing, that would show up in your story too. For another, you’d just work a little harder, and you’d get your story anyhow. All the same, if I wanted, I could make things tough. Now the point is, I don’t want you thinking I’m against you. The fact is that I’m not. In your place, I’d act the same as you. What I do want is a simple understanding. Anything you need is yours. Ask and I’ll arrange it. You go out and do your story. Then you come back to this office, and we talk. I want the chance to make this town look good to you. These people here are fine. I’m anxious that they don’t get hurt.”
Dunlap squinted.
“No, I’m not afraid of business being hurt,” Parsons said. “People out there don’t stop buying cattle just because a story makes a town look bad. What I said was true. I just don’t want these people hurt.”
Dunlap took a breath. “Fair enough.”
“What do you need?”
“Well, for starters, let me in your paper’s morgue. Then I’d like to see the records the police kept.”
“That’s no problem. What else?”
“Courthouse records. Trials and transcripts.”
“That’s no problem either.”
“Then I’d like to talk to people in the town. I’ll go out to the commune, too, of course.”
“Of course. I’ll see that someone goes out with you.”
Dunlap shrugged. “That’s all I can think of for now.”
“Well, you’d best get at it then. Just remember. Anything you need.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll get back to you.”
“I know you will.” And Parsons stared at him as Dunlap stood to leave. One thing now was certain, Dunlap thought. This was going to be a whole lot harder than he’d expected.
Chapter Twelve.
Ken Kesey was the cause of it. The Merry Pranksters and that bus. That was back in 1964. Kesey had already finished One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest and Sometimes a Great Notion. With his money, he had bought some land near Palo Alto, California, gathered freaks around him, and started on a trip. That was back when LSD was legal, and the trip of course was only in his mind. Then the trip was real. He had bought a bus, had sprayed it every color of the rainbow, and then dressing like a comic strip, he had shooed his freaks on board and started for New York. On the Road a decade later, Neal Cassidy as driver, that same Cassidy who’d been with Kerouac. They had ballyhooed across the country, music blaring out of speakers on the top, channeled in upon itself so that it echoed and then echoed yet again, police cars stopping them while Pranksters jumped down-Day-Glo-colored costumes, Captain Marvel, Mandrake the Magician-setting up their movie cameras. “Yes, sir! Yes, sir! What’s the trouble? Speak right toward this microphone.” Well, the policemen didn’t stay long, and the Pranksters got few traffic tickets, roaring on across the country, popping acid, blaring music, acting out the movie of their lives. They reached New York and headed back, and by now they were noticed, not just by the strangers they were passing but the press as well. There were numerous stories about their odyssey, acid rock and Day-Glo paint, so that when they got back to the commune, others of their kind were waiting for them, and the movie went on, only larger, more extreme. From the commune, they went to the cities, starting what they called their acid tests, light shows, flashing pictures, music coming from each corner of a hall they rented, speakers blaring, all matched with the flashing in their minds from all those Kool-Aid pitchers spiked with acid. Then Kesey was
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